


Double Bluff

by fadeoutslow



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kimi tries to cause trouble, but doesn't get what he expected. Set at Magny-Cours 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Bluff

Kimi generally tends not to take too much notice of what his teammates are doing unless it's directly related to the car. But it's not like Felipe makes the smallest effort to hide what's going on. Everyone in the team seems to be aware of it, so far as Kimi can tell, but no one says anything.

And it's hard to miss, the same routine before every race, not long before they're due on the grid. Michael and Felipe make their way to one of the locked storerooms at the back of the garage, Felipe always walking ahead, Michael's hand resting on the small of his back as if to guide him. Kimi watches the clock, now, and they'll usually be in there for about ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before Felipe will emerge, smiling, looking relaxed, almost serene.

Michael follows him a few moments later, sometimes wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, sometimes adjusting himself in his jeans.

Every race, exactly the same.

They're at Magny-Cours this weekend, and Kimi watches the two of them, waits until they disappear, then turns to one of the mechanics. "What do they do in there?" he asks, merely because he's curious to see what someone will actually say.

The guy gives him a long, studied look, then says, "Michael helps him get into the right headspace for the race."

Kimi nods, and says, "Is that what you call it." It's not a question.

"Yeah, well, I don't know what you're used to at McLaren," the mechanic says, sounding ever-so-slightly defensive, "but here at Ferrari, we do whatever it takes to win."

"Of course," Kimi replies.

The guy goes back to his work, and Kimi wanders away. He's already feeling like he doesn't belong on this team, with their stifling atmosphere, the way they do things. It's like he's suffocating sometimes, being crushed under the weight of expectations that won't allow him to be himself, and Kimi's the type of person who can only ever be himself.

He's sick of it, all of it, and causing some trouble feels like the perfect remedy, so he heads for the back of the garage, waits, just around the corner from the entrance to the storeroom.

It's not long before Felipe comes out, not looking back, and Kimi slips inside, closing the door behind him.

"Hi," he says.

Michael turns, not showing even the tiniest hint of being surprised or startled, utterly composed. There's a drop of… _something_ at the corner of his mouth, and his tongue snakes out, licks it off, almost too fast to see.

"Hello," he says, folding his arms, leaning back against the workbench, looking far more pleased with himself than any person has a right to be, and already this isn't going how Kimi planned, but he's not giving up now.

"I was wondering…" he starts, meeting Michael's even gaze, "if you could help me with get ready for the race." He smirks a little. "The way you help Felipe."

Michael looks at him. "Sure," he says, moving nearer, "if that's what you want." 

And maybe he's bluffing, Kimi thinks, he has to be bluffing, but Kimi can bluff with the best of them and he's not going to be the one who backs down, not even now, when Michael's hand is easing inside the front of his race suit, cool, long fingers wrapping around his cock. Michael's watching him, his face close to Kimi's, observing, it seems, eyes darkly amused, and Kimi can't help the small, sharp intake of breath that escapes him.

"Is this what you want?" Michael asks, stroking, firmer now, and Kimi can feel himself hardening under Michael's hand and suddenly he's considering if maybe the person he's actually bluffing here is himself, Kimi, not Michael, not the team, not anyone else.

But he's always found self-reflection to be a waste of time. Live in the moment, is his philosophy, and this is definitely a moment.

So he goes with it, doesn't say anything, and Michael smiles, falling gracefully to his knees, pulling down Kimi's suit just enough, taking his cock out.

One hand wrapped around the base, and he takes just the tip into his mouth, sucking softly, tonguing the slit, slowly, carefully, delicious torture until Kimi can't help himself, hands slipping around the back of Michael's head, pushing into the wet heat of his mouth.

And Michael doesn't hesitate, pulling off and grabbing Kimi's hips, hard enough to bruise, it feels like, slamming him back against the wall. "No," he says.

"What?" says Kimi, impatient.

Michael looks up at him, faintly smirking, challenging. "Say please," he says.

"No fucking way." Kimi doesn't say please, doesn't beg. Not for anyone.

Michael's grip on his hips tightens, and he opens his mouth wider, leaning in, hot breath surrounding the head of Kimi's cock but, maddeningly, no contact, no touch. Kimi grits his teeth, shakes his head. "No," he says, again.

"Okay then," Michael says, sitting back on his heels, unflustered, perfectly matter of fact. He stands up. "Good luck for the race," he says, heading for the door, and Kimi doesn’t know _what_ this is supposed to be, because it's fucking ridiculous that he's even in this situation, standing here his with his dick sticking out of his pants, having to _ask_ for it, but here he is, it seems, and what the hell else is he supposed to do?

So he says, "Wait," and Michael pauses, staring at him, impatient.

"Please," Kimi mutters, throwing up his hands a little, rolling his eyes, and he know he sounds petulant but come the fuck _on_.

Michael's very still, pretty clearly considering whether or not to push it further, but then he nods to himself, like he's made a decision.

And then he's back on his knees, no tease this time, mouth skimming smooth over Kimi's cock, up and down, one fisted hand jerking him in counter rhythm to the movement of his lips.

Kimi closes his eyes, his fingers running through Michael's hair, trying to find enough to hold on to, and the guy is _good_ , as technically proficient at this as everything else he does and that's kind of really fucking annoying but right now, Kimi can't bring himself to give a shit.

And it's no time at all before he's coming, pushing hard into Michael's throat, trying to be quiet, to not cry out, but probably failing, though it's not as if the whole garage won't already know what they're doing in here.

Kimi wonders what they'll think, wonders if he cares, but decides he doesn't.

He takes a breath, then opens his eyes, and Michael's just standing there, watching him, face as smug and irritatingly unreadable as ever.

"Thanks," Kimi says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"You're welcome." Michael shrugs.

"Do you want me to…" Kimi gestures in the general direction of Michael's crotch. He really _doesn't_ want to, but he feels he should offer.

"No," says Michael. "I'll take care of myself."

"Okay," Kimi says. "Well." It's only just now sinking in how _weird_ this has been, but he's not going to complain. Get off that hard, you really can't complain, he supposes, whatever the circumstances.

Michael turns to leave. "Have a good race," he says, and closes the door behind him.

"Yeah," Kimi says to the empty room. "I will."

And he does.


End file.
